Forced To Be The Mafia King's Bride (by Oma Green) novel Chapter 170

Dante's POV

Last night wouldn't leave me alone. Gianna's body shook under my mouth, the taste of her still branded on my tongue, the way she'd come so hard she couldn't stop, couldn't control it, liquid heat soaking my face while she screamed my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

And then she'd looked at me with those wide, scared eyes and asked me not to make love to her.

Can we not make love tonight?

Like I was some kind of threat she needed protection from, like everything we'd just shared meant absolutely nothing, like the intimacy we'd built over the past few weeks had evaporated the moment she caught her breath.

I pressed my palms against the desk and tried to breathe in slowly, then out. It was a pathetic attempt to get my heart rate under control, to stop the rage and hurt and confusion from bleeding into every thought.

I'd spent weeks breaking down her walls, brick by brick, showing her she could trust me, that this marriage could be more than just revenge and obligation and two people trapped in a gilded cage together.

I thought we were moving forward. Then one conversation ruined it. She'd thrown the contract in my face. Reminded me this was just business. Five years, then she gets her freedom and I get her father's head.

Like that's all I wanted from her.

Fuck.

The worst part? I understood why she'd done it.

She was terrified of feeling too much, terrified I wouldn't stay faithful to her because of Esmeralda, and what Lorenzo had done and how that made her feel like she wasn't worthy of real love.

And instead of talking to me about it, instead of trusting me enough to be vulnerable, she'd shut me out in the worst possible way at the worst possible time.

My hands curled into fists on the desk.

I wanted her so badly it hurt, but not when she looked at me like I was her captor instead of her husband.

So I'd taken a cold shower and walked out before I said something I couldn't take back.

And then I'd spent the entire night in my office, hard as a rock and miserable.

But I'd already decided.

I wasn't going to touch her again. She'd have to come to me. Prove she wanted this marriage. Wanted me. Not the protection. Not the deal. Just me.

Damn. The honeymoon.

I looked at the itinerary sitting on my desk. Flight plan already filed with my pilot. The jet fueled and ready. Private cliffside estate in Monaco rented for two weeks. No guards breathing down our necks. No business calls. No interruptions.

I'd wanted us to escape everything. The drama. The violence. The constant weight of our families' history pressing down on us. Just get lost in each other for a while. Bond without everyone watching. Start this marriage on the right foot.

Now the thought of being trapped with her for a week, seeing her in swimsuits and sundresses, watching her sleep in my bed every night, smelling her perfume, wanting her with every breath without being able to touch her sounded like pure torture.

And keeping my hands to myself the entire time.

It would kill me.

But I wasn't canceling. That would be admitting defeat, showing her she'd gotten under my skin, that she had power over me.

I'd go. I'd be the perfect gentleman. And I'd make her realize exactly what she was missing by shutting me out.

A knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts.

"Come in."

The door swung open.

Gianna stepped inside.

My pulse kicked up hard. Traitor.

She looked beautiful. Hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. A simple sundress that somehow made her look both elegant and innocent at the same time. The combination made me want to mess her up all over again.

She closed the door behind her and crossed the room with quick steps.

"Appear, then." I waved a hand dismissively. "Whichever word you prefer, Gianna. The point remains the same."

"My daughter is very perceptive. Dare I say too mature for her age, too aware of the undercurrents and tensions that adults think they're hiding. It scares me sometimes, honestly."

I tapped my fingers against the desk in a rhythmic pattern, a nervous habit I'd never quite broken.

"She's already lost her mother in the most traumatic way possible. I don't want her to feel like this marriage is temporary, like she's going to lose another mother figure because we couldn't get our act together."

Her face dimmed, all the color draining from her cheeks.

"So I'm just a replacement then," she said quietly. "Someone convenient to fill the void her mother left behind."

My back teeth ground together hard. We'd been through this exact conversation multiple times already. She kept bringing it up no matter what I said, kept twisting my words at every turn.

"You know damn well you're not a replacement, Gianna." I forced the words out in what I hoped sounded reassuring. "I'm saying I want us to be able to give Arielle a stable family environment. That's all I'm asking for here."

"Fine." She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, then let it drop. "We should probably work on that then."

"Good." I yanked open my desk drawer with more force than necessary.

"So let's talk about the rules. When we're around Arielle, we don't fight. We don't snipe at each other. We look at each other like we actually like being in the same room. We act the part of a couple who chose each other. We present a united front."

"Yes, sir," she interrupted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Should I salute while I'm at it?"

She reached out and took the folder, her fingers brushing mine for just a moment before she pulled away.

She flipped it open and her eyes scanned the first page, widening slightly as she took in what she was seeing.

Her voice turned mocking and theatrical as she read aloud from the document.

"The Rule Book for Marriage." She paused, looking up at me with disbelief written all over her face. "You made a rule book? An actual, physical rule book for our marriage?"